


Don't go to Hilltop Road again

by Nelja-in-English (Nelja)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), F/M, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Lingerie, Mind Control, Orgasm Control, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Sexual Slavery, Spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24943498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelja/pseuds/Nelja-in-English
Summary: Jon doesn'twantto go back to Hilltop Road, but there a voice inside him, that wants to know if he still can.Jon will make some bad choices again.
Relationships: Annabelle Cane/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 15
Kudos: 77
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Don't go to Hilltop Road again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anysin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anysin/gifts).



"Don’t go to Hill Top Road again," Jon remembers, and remembers again.

He saw it as a threat, at first, and he was okay with complying. Annabelle had been clear that she would see them coming, that she could outwit them, that he would learn nothing more.

Then he had started to wonder if he _could_ go back.

The fear of being controlled came back stronger, the memories of being unable to stop reading a book, and then - there hadn't been any real spiderweb, but it had still been here, in his nightmares. Like in the book, you couldn't see it, before it was too late.

It was ironic, really, that he had gone to Hilltop Road out of worry of being controlled - no, he shouldn't lie to himself, it had been almost hope - and how he had come back from it with an additional worry. Ironic, and suitable for the Web.

So, because he's terrified, but he can't bear not knowing, he goes back.

He starts by walking down the street, only seeing the house. It should be enough, but then he thinks that going back would be proof that he can't go further. And then...

He knows he's doing something stupid, but those are the only things that make him think he's in control of his own life. He doesn't knock when he opens the door. And then... he should go. He really should go. He can leave. So why wouldn't he?

He wants to know.

At his first step inside the house, the door closes behind him. And he can't move.

He stays there for a long time, enough to be able to realize how stupid he has been, enough to see long spider legs in every corner, and he can't even shiver.

Finally, the dread when he sees Annabelle is almost a relief.

"I shouldn't have trusted an Archivist to follow simple requests," she says. She smiles. "Oh, I shouldn't say that. I didn't trust you, I had planned for this. It's just that I expected better."

So he wasn't being controlled, he was being tested. 

Or she is playing with him even deeper than he feared.

Jon wants to ask her what she wants to do, but of course he can't move his mouth either. Why would she let him use his only weapon?

She is getting close. Jon can see her eight eyes, he can see the spider web on the side of her head, and he feels his old phobia mix with his legitimate worry, making his heart beat too fast and his mind unable to produce anything else than horror stories without beginning or end, spindly legs, mandible sounds...

"So instead, I will have to teach you how to follow orders." Despite his panic, he can notice her wide grin, he can notice nothing else. She looks like she has human teeth. For now.

"Get on your knees," she orders, and Jon can't not do it. He can't even try to fight it; it's not a force imposed on his body, it's on his mind, with every one of his muscles pleasantly relaxed as he kneels. He even feels an intense rush of pleasure. It's in his head, like the one time he smoked weed and never tried it again because he was not himself, it's in his belly, and he knows how hard his cock is, how visible it is through his stretched trousers.

She smiles. On the nearest table, a tape recorder starts recording. Jon is afraid Annabelle is glad for its presence. It should be on his side.

"Here's how it will go," she says. "Every time you obey, you will feel very good. Every time you disobey, you will be punished. Remove your jacket now."

Jon is waiting for her to puppeteer him, but she doesn't. Her smile grows wider.

"Did you not understand the rules? Or maybe I was not clear. Sometimes you will get a choice, sometimes you won't." She puts her chin in her hand, pensive. "Or maybe you're too curious and you wanted to know what your punishment would be? Maybe you were even expecting pain, hoping for it? I've been keeping an eye on you, Archivist. You love pain."

Jon wants to protest, but he still can't. And too soon he understands which kind of punishment she meant. There are hundreds of spiders. Some of them are tiny, less than a millimeter, some of them are bigger than any natural spider. He already wants to scream as they come near him, but he can't. When they start crawling on him, he wants to close his eyes, cover his nose, his ears, but he can't, and they are all over him. His heart is beating wildly, he wants to faint, but he can't do that either. He can feel their legs on the skin of his face.

He's too terrified to see what they're doing, even less to understand, until some pieces of cloth fall from his arms, his back, and he realizes they undid all his jacket's seams, gnawing at them, or whatever - he doesn't want to imagine it, and when the spiders run away, he realizes he can't scream but he can cry.

"Remove your shirt, now," Annabelle orders. Jon does it, oh, so fast. She gives a little admiring, mocking whistle, as Jon throws it away and feels the same overwhelming pleasure again.

"Remove your trousers," she orders. He complies, even though he has to clumsily crawl if he wants to remove them while staying on his knees. He feels his cock twitch as he finishes, he loves it and hates that his body is not his, that the head of his cock sticks out of his boxers. Anything, rather than the spiders.

"Remove your boxers," she orders again.

Jon wants to, but he can't. He can't move, he can't even protest. And the spiders are back again.

Knowing what will happen doesn't make it better at all.

"Sometimes you'll decide if you obey, sometimes I'll decide," Annabelle says, in an amused tone. "Of course, you will still be rewarded or punished accordingly."

It's so terribly unfair, and Jon wants to scream, but he wouldn't open his mouth when so many spiders are crawling on him. Once again, they gnaw at every seam of the little clothes he has left, and they won't leave... He can feel their legs everywhere, and he can't know, maybe they are actually everywhere, maybe he will just never stop feeling them.

Finally he can move his neck again, look at his body, see that there are no longer spiders. But he's not naked. He's wearing silky underwear, almost transparent, panties and stockings, brassière and garterbelts, and a soft collar around his neck. As he moves, he can't stop noticing how soft the silk is against his body, caressing him.

He doesn't want it to feel good.

But he doesn't want it to feel like spiders either.

"Touch your nipples through the silk," Annabelle says.

He jumps at the sensation; it's not only the artificial pleasure, it also feels wonderful, and he hates it. He pinches when she asks, and the pain runs through his veins like delight.

"Say you're pretty."

"I'm pretty," Jon answers, blushing with shame, but also in relief to be able to talk again, terrified to risk the spiders again. The pleasure swims through his body, goes to his groin, again. His hardening cock rubs against the silk, making him twist in arousal.

She laughs.

"You know what would make you even prettier? Taking a cock in the ass. We can arrange that. Say that you need something in your ass."

"I need something in my ass," Jon answers. As he says it, he can feel it, the pleasure turning into need. He moans in lust and despair.

"Good, good. Take this." 

Annabelle now has a dildo in her hands, and Jon is glad he didn't see the spiders that probably brought it. He's not glad about everything else. About how huge it is, or about the fact that following Annabelle's orders makes him squirm, makes him even more aroused.

"Here are the rules," she says. "You will first suck this for a while. Get it very wet all along, it's the only lube you're going to get. And then you'll fuck yourself on it. Is it clear? Answer."

"It is very clear," Jon answers. He doesn't want not to do it. He doesn't want the lust to burn in his belly.

She hands him the dildo, with a very dignified, regal gesture that doesn't suit what they're doing at all, Jon thinks hysterically. It's not like it changed anything. He takes the thing, and even if he shivers thinking about where it has been, he takes the head in his mouth. Here again, obeying makes him so aroused that he squirms, his hips moving by themselves, against the soft silk.

He can't take it all in his mouth, it's not possible. Even after taking it as deep as he can before feeling sick, so much of it is still dry. He tries to lick all of it on the side, but it dries too fast. He ends up drooling on it, and hoping.

He can feel Annabelle looking at him, he can almost feel her having fun. The Eye always gives him the least useful information.

"Don't try to remove your panties," Annabelle says. "First, you can't. Second, you have a slit in them especially for this."

When the dildo enters his ass - it hurts. But even the hurt, with the artificial pleasure of being Annabelle's slave, makes him all warm and tingly. He wouldn't stop now even if he could, he needs this. He impales himself on the dildo very slowly, sometimes losing his coordination under a new wave of pleasure. He's drooling again, and crying, and he thrusts his hips. 

The dildo is not even half inside. He tries to see it not as something sexual but as something needed for survival, like an invasive medical necessity. If it was only pain, maybe he could.

"Am I not nice?" Annabelle asks. "I could make you fuck me. I heard it was not your thing."

Jon hates himself, but loudly admits that yes, she's very nice, and he thanks her, because she wants to be thanked.

"You're a good slave," she says. "The Web should have taken you before. Maybe it has. Maybe you only thought you were free, all these years."

Jon pushes the dildo harder into himself. With his other hand, he rubs his cock though the silk. He hasn't been ordered to do this, but he hasn't been asked not to do it, and it's maybe even more humiliating that he has the choice, but he no longer cares. He wants to come so much. He knows it's not from him, this arousal. That's the exact reason why he wants to expel it from him.

"Do you want to come?" Annabelle asks.

Jon fears that lying counts as not following orders. "Yes."

"You will only come if I allow it. And you have to convince me. You can beg."

Jon is so tense with anger and lust and fear. "Please, let me come." He says, between tightened teeth.

"Oh no, not like that! First, you will call me Miss Annabelle. But most of all, you need to show me how much of a slut you are to deserve it. Give me a show." She pats the tape recorder. "I wonder who would like to hear all this. Dear Elias? Peter Lukas? Martin Blackwood would be an option, so are the girls you came here with. Oh, maybe Georgie. I'm sure she would like to hear all this. Well, probably not, but I could help."

If Jon had any dignity left, he'd spit in her face. At least metaphorically. He's not been ordered to beg. He could. But he's already got a dildo up his ass, so he's too tired to pretend.

"Please, Miss Annabelle," he says. He keeps squeezing his cock with one hand, thrusting with the dildo with the other. He rolls on his side to make moving easier, but to show submission too. Each movement seems to bring him closer to orgasm, making him need it more, while still keeping it out of reach. "I'm a slut, I need to come."

She laughs. "Oh, Archivist. You are so good with words. You can do better." 

Jon closes his eyes.

"I want release more than anything. I'm contemptible to my own eyes, I'm rolling in shame, and I can't stop, I can only be your dirty plaything. Desire has planted its hooks in me and brought me to the lowest place. Please, Miss Annabelle, I offer you my dignity, I offer you my disgrace, I'm disgusting and vile, and I need it."

It's all true. It's flowing through his lips as he's still touching himself, and he could stop, he could stay silent, and he doesn't.

She laughs. "Oh, _Archivist_ , you can be entertaining! So, as a gift, more rules for you. From now on, every time you hear the word _slave_ , you'll come. It doesn't need to be from me. But it can't be from you either."

And then she says, in a lascivious, obscene tone. "My slave."

The orgasm starts from Jon's mind, from every one of his hairs, from his skin, and it builds, rolls through his body to his cock, rips his mind from him as he forgets who he is, what he is, and can only feel. It's all the release he hoped for and more. He can no longer move, the dildo still deep in his ass, unmoving.

"Clean your mess," Annabelle orders. "With your tongue." He can feel the Web pulling on him. He accepts this with gratitude, rather than having to force himself to get on his hands and knees. He hates the taste of his semen, he hates the dust under it, but he loves his obedience so much that he doesn't matter.

"Slave," Annabelle says again, surprising him, and Jon falls on his belly. Not that he notices, lost in his orgasm again. "Slave, slave, slave." There seems to be no end to this, and every time he manages to snap out of it, he fears that it's the last time, that his brain has been lost in pleasure and will never come back.

He spends a lot of time licking the floor clean. Sometimes she makes him do it. Sometimes, he does it by himself, from terror to disappoint her. In the end, he's no longer sure he can tell the difference.

* * *

Annabelle never fucks him, and never forgets to ask him to thank her for it.

She plays with him when she's there, even when she's not, giving absurd orders, making him humiliate himself in front of a tape recorder again, but there's no contact, only these forced orgasms that pierce Jon's soul and destroy any self-esteem he could have left.

Sometimes he begs for them, sometimes he begs not to be forced to come again. Both seem to please her. Neither seems to change anything about what she has decided.

He tries to remove his silk clothes, and every time his hands disobey him, lasciviously touch himself instead. He never gets to undress, and the silk underwear keeps making him aroused all the time. Why would he touch himself, since he knows nothing will come from it? He can think this way for hours, maybe days. Not forever. He always ends up chasing pleasure and relief he can't have. Sometimes he even tries to mentally call himself a slave strong enough. It's not a lie, after all.

It still doesn't work.

* * *

When he finally sees Daisy in the house, his first feeling is shame. His second is to be terrified for her. He’s not surprised she came for him, not really, even if he doesn’t deserve it. He would only be surprised if she actually managed to save him.

"I followed your smell," she says. "We can leave before she comes back."

She gives him her jacket, for decency, clearly noticing his state but not commenting on it. Jon wants to cry from what a good friend she is.

Until they're out of the house, Jon fears something: not being able to move, her not being able to move. Even after leaving the street, he's shaking, not trusting himself.

"Please remove these," he asks, his voice trembling. She does, tearing off the collar and the brassière at least - Jon is almost sure she used claws - then hesitating.

"Please." He got used to begging. He doesn't like this, but he will work on it later.

As Daisy rips off the panties, for the first time for a long time, Jon doesn't feel arousal. He feels both very free and a bit empty.

"I will get you trousers and clothes. Just tell me your shoe size. Stay here and hide under the jacket."

Jon accepts of course - and then, he feels the shiver of obedience again, the pleasure that shouldn't be. There's no freedom from the Web, never. He hides his face under the jacket too, and hopes Daisy doesn't know why he's sobbing.


End file.
